


badkidsjokes inc.

by light_rises



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anxiety, Autistic Chara, Autistic Frisk, Bad Jokes, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sharing a Body, possibly not as many as the title implies though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/pseuds/light_rises
Summary: M'up. What is it.There's sleepy cricks in your voice, even though you don't rest the way Frisk does and your voice is a construct you could mold to your liking. But you don't. And won't. You're too tired for that, right now.Frisk waits a little longer. Then:Are you good to talk?You don't laugh, somehow. The grin you cut against their thoughts is a little thin.Never, but I'm as ready as I've ever been.Ha. Fair enough.--Sometimes, kids say words and tell jokes. They're not always very good ones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [telluricThanatologist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telluricThanatologist) for their betaing and feedback on this!
> 
> Also, a content warning that's not covered in the tags (and may count as a slight spoiler, though I'll keep it vague): the kids wind up negotiating Something related to their current bodysharing sitch on a temp basis, and check on each other wrt consent/the level of comfort and intimacy involved. It all works out in the end, but if you need a heads-up for this, here it is.
> 
>  **ETA (2/18/2017):** Due to a point of confusion brought up in the comments, I've made a few edits! It changes the flow of the story a bit, so that might make it worth a reread. Another hat-tip to the ever-lovely telluricThanatologist for helping me rework things here. :'D

_Hey._

Frisk is trying to get your attention, tossing pokes at the mental partition you've erected for the night. They're trying to be gentle—the pokes are very, very soft, the circumspect rousing of a sleepmate—but you hiss anyway. Whenever Frisk falls asleep, there's no smooth transition between your hazy disengagement and their wakefulness later on, no matter how much you've both tried. They know, of course; they have the decency to stay quiet now, as everything about you (the ragged pieces that are left, anyway) shudders with pins and needles, feeling that's both a little yours and mostly foreign reasserting itself. It's always so rude.

 _M'up. What is it._ There's sleepy cricks in your voice, even though you don't rest the way Frisk does and your voice is a construct you could mold to your liking. But you don't. And won't. You're too tired for that, right now.

Frisk waits a little longer. Then: _Are you good to talk?_

You don't laugh, somehow. The grin you cut against their thoughts is a little thin. _Never, but I'm as ready as I've ever been._

_Ha. Fair enough._

They don't say more right away. The prickly static on your end is fading, so you get your (their) bearings: Frisk is still in bed, duvet cast aside except for a little fold of it covering their feet. The rest is bunched against their back like a plush wall; their arms are folded close to their chest, fists pressed to the crown of their sternum with the amount of pressure Frisk likes.

Annoyingly, their eyes are shut. More annoyingly, those eyes are mashed up against Frisk's pillow like a shield. You huff. _At least tell me it's morning, Frisk._

They hum aloud for a moment.

 _... I mean, it_ is _technically_ _—_

_Oh fuck me._

_Fine!_ They puff out their cheeks, adding, _It's quarter past two._

It's silent for the precise space of six heartbeats.

 _Right. Wonderful._ You flick Frisk the image of someone (you) rolling over in bed. _Get back to me when the sun's out._

Frisk dips their chin to their fists, frowning. _I want to sleep too, but—just one minute. That's all I need._

_Then guess what, it can wait! And I'm not the one who needs sleep here. Goodnight._

_I wouldn't have bothered you if I didn't have to tell you right away!_

This... gives you pause. Less so because of Frisk's tone, or the words. There's something behind both that Frisk is carefully closing off from you, and it doesn't smack of the politeness you afford each other for the sake of mental privacy (or at least the facsimile thereof).

If you could, you'd rub the little space between your eyebrows. Frisk seems to pick up on that sentiment anyway, and you sigh. _Alright. Fine. What's going on?_

 _It's..._ They hesitate, hand lifting to brush aside errant bangs. Their eyes stay shut. _I was thinking about something_. _From back when you helped me get through Snowdin Forest, that first time._

The core at whatever you are now goes taut; the tension of a guitar string held but not plucked. _Yeah?_

_There was that one sign. I think it said "Warning: Dog Marriage"?_

... Oh. Well.

You can't fathom where they could be going with this (not without being an, er, inexcusable sort of nosey). But hey, you can roll with it. _Oh, right! That time you feigned illiteracy because you didn't believe what you'd just read._

Frisk's tongue sticks out with gusto. You snort. _I don't remember the part where I went "Wow, suddenly I can't read,"_ they say _._

 _Look, Frisk, it's fine to admit you couldn't absorb the magnitude of "dog marriage" as a concept. You're in good company._ You keep snickering as they fling (good-natured) incredulity at you. It's not long before they start laughing too, one foot kicking out from beneath the duvet's confines.

 _Okaaay, fine_ , Frisk says, once you've both calmed down enough to listen. _I guess I wasn't prepared for something that, ah_ _—_

_Amazing? Wholesome?_

_Those aren't wrong_. Their attitude shifts a touch—chagrined, maybe, if no less affable—as they say, _Also, uh. "Still busy being scared of monster magic" might've put a damper there, too._

 _... Well. That's granted._ You sober a tiny bit yourself.

Silence hangs awkward between you, for a few moments. Frisk gives their nose a hard rub at the tail end of it.

 _I guess it doesn't matter_ , they push on, with the air of someone throwing their hands up in resignation. _I ruined dog marriage for myself anyway._

You stop short of sputtering.

 _That's—_ A pause. _How could you._ Possibly _ruin dog marriage? Frisk_ _—_

 _It's easier than you'd think_. Frisk's affect isn't—neutral, definitely not, but they're being pretty calm, considering they've arrived at the conclusion that dog marriage is _ruined forever_ , apparently.

It's good that you're in no mood to play around, then. _What_ , you enunciate, _did you do_.

Frisk presses their lips flat, considering. _Are you sure_ _—_

 _That I can handle it? Not a clue!_ Your grin is overbright against the backdrop of Frisk's mind, probably. _But hey, might as well pull this alleged misery train into the station now that you've dragged me onto it, right?_

 _... Not what I was going to say, but._ A sigh. _Yeah. Okay._ Their hands come together at the fingertips, barely touching. You, and they, wait.

Then: _Have you ever considered what the opposite of "dog marriage" would be?_

You... broadcast a stare, at first. And then a hard squint; and then—

_... Uh._

_I know, right?_

_But._ You'd be massaging a temple, here. _"Cat divorce"?_

_You've got it._

_... Aaand about that... ?_

_Well, it's pretty bad._

_I mean. Conceptually yes, fine, but it's—_ _not? Exactly hard-hitting devastation with regard to the concept of "dog marriage"??_

_It isn't?_

_No????????_

_Oh. Well, then—_

They shrug, the thought behind it fringed with a very specific breed of smug that you nearly miss.

_—I guess them's the break-ups._

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no way in _hell_ , that absolute **_shitter_**.

_... You._

_Me?_ they say, honey-sweet.

 _Shut it! You. You_ _have the_ ** _gall—_** you're serving Frisk's brain an image of your finger poking them in the nose, here— _to wake me up, such as it is; to stroll up to my half of our shared brainspace and leave this nasty FILTH at my feet_ _—_

_Like a cat?_

Your hypothetical finger freezes in the air.

 _Ha._ _Wow._ A beat. _You have no idea how to turn that off, do you._

 _None at all._ It's barely-there, but you can sense the smile tugging at Frisk's cheeks. _And I did try to warn you_ , they add, deadpan traded for something just short of singsong, and now here you are, aghast and impressed all in one go. Fucking incredible, this kid.

You decide to tell Frisk as much, because why the hell not.

 _Thank you_ , they reply.

 _Fantastic_. You're not gracing them with a "you're welcome," the jackass. _Also, advice? Tighten the setup if you're going to insist on being a pain and dazzle someone with your vaunted dark humors. Double natch if it's the middle of the night._

They suppress a roll of their eyes. _Most of my jokes aren't like that._

_Enough to be noteworthy._

_I. Guess??_

_Just_ — _alright. Alright._ You sigh, regrouping. _Try this on for size: Wholesome material, in broad daylight. You know?_

_... Hmm._

_I trust you to surprise me. Honest._ And you are, despite the pique you're shoving at them. Frisk has a knack for catching you unawares that's as endearing as it is the bane of your demi-existence. Might as well set that up for a win-win, right?

They don't reject your assertion, at least. You sense a tiny, tiny burr of Something on their end as they kick their feet, eventually plunging both into the mound of duvet behind them. _I do like a challenge_ , they say evenly.

_Great. That's the spirit._

_No, that's you._

_Sh—GO to bed!!_

Their smile stretches as they duck their face into the pillow, giggling. You fill the hollow of Frisk's head with a groan, set to deafening because you're feeling obnoxious and don't want to hear anything else until they chill the fuck out.

They do, eventually (give or take three minutes) and... and that should be that. Frisk's body recurls into a favored position, with some twitchy shuffling here and there. Their thoughts shutter closed, with a finality you know well. They settle in.

They don't relax, though. That burr hasn't really gone away. It's winking between the slats they've put up, cloying, not wanting to be noticed but—

Frisk didn't even tell you "goodnight" again. You frown.

You do that while thinking really, really hard about nudging them in the ankle, with a big toe you don't have.

They startle—too fast. There's a pulse of phantom vertigo on your end, and then Frisk's heart hammering away as they gulp air, eyes snapped open to the surrounding twilight.

 _Shit._ You make to seep into their space; second thought has you rearing back. You're jittery too, you don't want to make it worse for them. _Sorry. I'm sorry_ . Fuck. You should've **_known_ ** better, you idiot.

Frisk tries for a steadying breath. _It's f—_ The rest wipes from your view, like chalk on a board. Another breath (still too uneven) as their thoughts take a subtle shift, and Frisk smooths a hand over their chest. _T—that's_ my _line_.

You... feel bad, at first, barking a laugh. A real laugh, not a hysterical gust. Reflex or not, you suppose it was the effect Frisk intended. They're almost pleased, and definitely less keyed up.

You appreciate the slack in tension, too. _What, you—do you hold a copyright over apologies that I'm not aware of?_

 _I thought it was obvious?_ They _tsk_ you with a mental headshake. You keep laughing. _Only anything with the word "sorry" in it, though._

_Oh, I mean. Of course._

_Mmhm._ Their breathing's back to a stable rhythm, more or less. _Thank you, by the way_ , they say at length. _For the apology_.

 _... Of course_. You're not sure what else to say, for a while. Frisk is too awake for sleep now, so they quietly set their hands to stimming—running thumbpads over their knuckles, folding fingers, lacing them in and out of each other like a comb. Their gaze half-focuses on the play of moonlight across the nearest wall, the fuzzy glow and sharp angle it strikes after it hits their bed.

 _It's... probably gauche of me to ask after all that_ , you start, _if there was something wrong, earlier._

Frisk's hands go still. They move into a firm clasp, held against the bottom of their ribcage as they fail to answer.

 _Hm. Actually, that's stupid to ask. It's patently obvious that something's up._ You stop yourself there. Blunt is usually fine for Frisk, but then there's confrontational. C'mon, Chara. _You don't have to tell me, though_ , you add, like you've rushed to tack on a band-aid. Your not-gut squeezes uncomfortably. _I mean it. Say the word, and it's dropped._

Frisk just draws a long breath, filling their lungs so you can't help but feel it too. _If you don't know what it could be about_ , they say, carefully, _maybe_ I'm _the one being stupid._

_I'd rather be the judge of that myself, thank you._

_Mmm._ Frisk rubs their mouth and nose with the flat of their palm. _I don't—_ They swallow. _Are you mad at me, Chara?_

You guess because you don't have one of your own, Frisk's heart gives a queasy flutter on your behalf. Fuck. Okay. Okay.

You could just hurl silent bafflement at them to get the point across, but if this were you, wouldn't you hate that? Right. _Frisk. Hey._ You clap imaginary hands together. _I'm not. It'd be idiotic to beat around the bush with this and you shouldn't have to worry, so: I don't know why I would be, but I'm not mad, and we're cool._

Frisk whooshes out the breath they've been holding. So you did that right, probably. Good.

... It's not where you should leave things, though, huh. You think about fiddling with fleecy sleeves you haven't worn in decades, and Frisk's body mirrors it, as best it can. Frisk doesn't seem to mind. _Is there,_ you start, then stop. _Is there something I said, or did, that led you to believe I was angry?_

They shake their head, with immediate vigor. _Just wanted to check with you, in case I..._ They swallow again. Frisk's chest is nursing a bubble you can clearly sense now, a lavender swell of relief and guilt. _I wasn't thinking about it when I told you, but... I made a joke about divorce, didn't I?_

You come close to answering with _Well,_ ** _yeah??_** when the implication hits you, softly, between the proverbial eyes. Oh,

 

 

Well, then.

 

 

 

 

Because it's what you resort to when you can't think of anything else, you laugh.

It's not a happy one, but you put up invisible placating hands when Frisk starts to flare alarm at you. _St—still not mad_ , you tell them, which is true enough. _I just. I didn't even THINK about that until you pointed it out?? God._ A few of the giggles wheeze past Frisk's lips; it's you who raises one of their hands to clamp it over their mouth. Frisk wedges in the wordless suggestion that you're fine, don't worry, and they lift that hand away.

You're left to hiss thready laughter into Frisk's room, until you sputter and empty of it. Frisk waits until then (they do so much _waiting_ for you, you think) to thread their will into the spaces between your own and gently tug you back, away from bodily control. They follow this, aloud and earnest and thin, with, "Sorry. Should've thought that one through better."

It takes you a second to realize they're picking up the conversation from where it'd left off. You toss them a stiff shrug. _That's nice of you, but you're playing at formalities_. _I'll be fine_.

 _That's..._ A wrinkle folds between their brows. Frisk's tone is very careful as they say, _It's okay to be upset at me if you want, Chara._

 _Oh my god. What do you expect from me, a scolding?_ An excruciatingly petty part of you chimes in with a _Well, OF COURSE_ , but you smack it so fast and so far from Frisk's awareness that you hope they missed the bright glare of it. You were _already_ being more snappish than you'd intended, what are you _doing_.

(Some bodymate and defuser of unnecessary tension you are, huh.)

_... I mean. You're not wrong._

You stiffen. _What?_

_About that. The scolding._

You say nothing. Frisk folds their legs, moving to nestle them against the crook of their chest.

 _I was joking_ , you manage, tone at a limp. _Exaggerating for effect._

_Chara._

You sigh. _Frisk._

_... It really is okay, you know._

The hypothetical you with a body is running brisk, tetchy hands over your face and scalp. _You know I don't appreciate being told how I should feel_ , you say.

 _I do, yeah._ Frisk frowns into the space between their kneecaps. _I'm batting oh-for-oh here, huh._

You lob scandal at them. _Hey, wow? We've been over this. Stop talking like you know shit about sports._

They snort, hard. Mirth bursts fragile and bright into Frisk's mood while yours shudders into a grin.

 _... Maybe_ , you say (probably because you are a coward, or sensible), _we should leave off discussing how bad we are at telling jokes for. You know. When it's not the middle of the night._

There's wariness nipping at the edges of Frisk's relief, but they huff a laugh. _That's fair_.

_Great. For real._

It goes quiet, and Frisk grows thoughtful. An instant happens there, where some of their mind is shuttered from you again. It lifts when Frisk sits up, stretching to pluck their phone from its perch at the foot of their bed.

 _I'm gonna... I dunno_ , they say, as they resettle against their duvet alcove. _Watch some videos, probably? Or play games._

 _Whichever's the most soothingly mindless_ , you say. It's less a tease than a statement.

 _Basically_. They thumb past the phone's lockscreen; the fingers of their free hand jerk, like a soft spasm, before Frisk pulls that arm in to hug themself. And... they take a deep breath. You realize just a tick too late it's meant to be a steeling one.

"Too late" is this: control over their body opening at the seams. Not everywhere, but it includes pockets you've never had access to before, except -

Except those times when Frisk surrendered the steering to you entirely.

You gape at them. _What are you doing._

 _It's for if you want to join me_ . The thought behind Frisk's words is in the shape of an olive branch, but at its center is... what you think might be bashfulness? _I'm giving you more room to, uh. Hook in, if you'd like_. _I'd still be right here._

More than usual, you sense what Frisk senses—the soft bedthings they like so much, the warm, one-armed clench of their hug—through the invitation they're holding open, like hot air or the waft of baked goods escaping through a doorway. You flinch back. _Frisk—_

 _It's okay! You wouldn't be imposing._ The hand tucked against Frisk's ribs clenches and unclenches, twice. _You don't—it's fine if you don't want to. I know we haven't tried sharing like this before._

 _How would that even_ **_feel_** , you interject. There's the full-on swaps and vague, wavery fluctuations in control you're both used to by now, and then there's this.

 _I don't know! Probably weird. Maybe good._ They flick through the home pages on their phone, back and forth, aimless. They start worrying their bottom lip. _Like I said, you don't have to. If you do... if it gets too weird—it might for me, too—I won't stop you from pulling back._

You regard those open seams again, alongside the places in between where Frisk still fills the gaps. Theoretically, you'd both be doing what you've done before. It would just be deliberate, sustained, _and_ simultaneous. Which is straightforward enough, but... _If we're enmeshing physical control, like, in total_ , you say, slowly, _does it follow that our thoughts would do the same?_

Frisk seems a little lost at first. You're getting ready to rephrase when they flash understanding at you and shake their head. _If that happens, it'll be an accident_ , they tell you. They hitch on a tiny, rueful smile as they add, _We'd have enough on our plates without trying to cross those wires, too._

 _Aha. Right._ This sets you more at ease, at least.

You both go quiet. Frisk sets down their phone to scratch their cheek. _I'm good with whatever you want to do_ , they say. Their voice rings quiet but unwavering between you. _Just let me know._

It occurs to you that Frisk hasn't stopped hugging themself. As you think, you sigh.

(More than that, in a place where Frisk can't see, you worry. You worry, because Frisk is so _good_ at tucking themself out of the way for the sake of accommodation. And that's for other people, with their own damn bodies. Frisk insists that you deserve a space here, but if you ever end up taking up too much of _theirs_ to maintain that—

On the other hand, this offer doesn't... feel like that kind of compromise? As much as you can't stand yourself, you're not stupid. You know that Frisk is fond of you. They enjoy your company, like (most of) your horrible jokes and prying guidance and. And whatever else they find appealing about you?? Hell if you know.

That's how it is, though. And it's... funny. It's _funny_. There's been a host of times where you and Frisk have needed real space to yourselves, with nary a thing you could do about it except put up makeshift brain barriers. Which, shockingly, are no substitute for minds and bodies of your own. You've just had to muddle through to make this shared niche of existence work, no one the wiser except—except someone who can't bear to come with you two. Ha.

As evidenced, right now doesn't seem to be one of those times. And right now, you're okay with that. Huh.

... If Frisk is allowing themself to be a little bit selfish here, just for once, perhaps you can too.)

Speaking of: _Hey_. _So._

Frisk tilts their head at the slant of moonbeam in front of them. _So_ , they say.

You make sure they know your brainghost arms are crossed, tight and stern.

 _Uno's Sanctuary is running a twenty-four hour livestream of their kittens. I forget on which webspace. It shouldn't be hard to find._ You narrow your gaze. _If we don't watch that for at least an hour, I will hold it against you indefinitely._

Predictably, their attention snags at your use of "we" (don't let them know you're smiling too, _do not_ ). Frisk tries to smooth over the fizz of their happiness with a dry, _It's that good, huh?_

You scoff. _If we're going to share almost everything for however long we're—trying this?? I'm going to broker for nothing less than the finest of web content._

_Well. Shit, then._

_An appropriate response._

_Look at you, driving such a hard bargain._

_Did you honestly expect anything less, Frisk?_

In lieu of answering, Frisk removes the arm hugging their torso—you frown, a little; you're not even fully tapped in yet and you miss how that felt—and scratches the side of their nose.

 _You know_ , they say, _it's okay to let me know if you're_ happy _about something, too._

You choke. The corners of Frisk's mouth perk up.

 _I mean_ , they add, serenely, _for your reference, I guess_.

 _Sh-shut up!_ Your voice isn't even real and it cracks, shoved upward an octave. You're given zero chance to save face before Frisk starts giggling, like this is the funniest fucking thing in the world. Great. Real great.

 _Sorry_ , they squeak at you, eventually.

 _Are_ **_not_** _._

 _I am a little_. They trace a cross over their heart, resettling that arm into the hug it was poised in before. They add a nod, as if to say, "See?"

You come so close to asking _Why are you like this_ it's a near thing. Instead you go, _Let the record show_ —a stop here; Frisk's brows climb upward as they wait for you to continue— _let it show that you? Have clawed your way to achieving the dubious honor of "second-most embarrassing person I have ever met."_

Their brows finish their ascent.

_Well?_

_Hmm._ Frisk's thoughts slide away from yours, briefly. They come back with, _I like you fine too, for the record._

Oh _god_.

Your ghost arms fly up. Fuck. Fine! Whatever, you give up. _Are we starting this thing or what_ , you grind out.

Frisk picks up their phone again, making a more concerted effort to navigate the UI. They slow a little as that maybe-bashfulness creeps back into view, drip by drip.

Ah. This got real again.

One more deep breath, from Frisk. _Yeah_ , they say. _I'm ready_.

To be honest, their nerves are yours too. You start with Frisk's hugging arm for now, weaving strands of yourself in there, like toes testing the waters. Baby steps. _We're just watching some videos_ , you tell Frisk, trying to be conversational.

And then you're bumping right up against them in that arm. It's... you're so used to either nudging or being nudged out of the way for control that it's kind of (uh, very) disorienting. And. Weird? Really, really, really weird.

(Maybe a little bit good, too.)

You suppose that Frisk agrees. They seem a little disconcerted themself, but it's far from all bad. They're thrumming with some extra confidence now. _Don't forget games_ , they suggest, bright and nonchalant. _We should try that later on._

 _Oh. Cool_. Mutely, you suggest moving the hugging arm's pinky. Frisk is agreeable but lags behind your initiative by a fraction of a second, which just makes the pinky kind of... jerk. Hmm. _We'll either learn something valuable about drift compatibility or have fun dying our asses off._

_Chara!_

They laugh, though. As do you. When you're both ready—calmer, and better adept at moving a pinky finger in concert, sort of—you start knitting yourself the rest of the way in.


End file.
